Sunflowers in Winter
by Sarahbookjunkie
Summary: Oneshot Clois future fic, from a different POV.


A Clois future fic

A/N: Initially I thought I was going to need some sort of warning for this story, saying "All ye who enter here, suspend your disbelief". I really wanted to include sunflowers, because I liked the imagery, but I had a suspicion they didn't bloom in winter. A quick call to my gardening expert mother confirmed this, so I got into a complete flap about it, and was ready to argue that, well, if _Smallville_ could have mountains in Kansas and Lex Luthor surviving the Fortress falling on top if him, I could have sunflowers blooming in the wintertime.  
Then my mother phoned back to say they could bloom if they were in a greenhouse, and could I remember to get milk on the way home....voila! Problem solved.

Mind you, if you do read this, it's a bit on the melancholy side, and you may still need to part with your disbelief. Just saying.

So anyways, thanks are due to **Olivia**, again, for picking the title. I promise, at some point, I will manage to pick my own titles. Also, and especially, thanks to **drvr8**: it started out as bitching, but I was oddly inspired. And please don't kill me for taking in what you said and ignoring most of it.

* * *

Today is the day Dad allows the sadness I sometimes see in his eyes to overwhelm him.

Today is the day Mom tells us, that no matter how we're feeling or how mad we are, to remind Dad how much we love him.

I always noticed the difference between Dad on every other day of the year and Dad on this day. Now older and more aware of how the world works, I can see more clearly the lines in his forehead, the grey colour of his eyes, the droop of his shoulders. Mom always says that I take after Dad the most - more finely tuned, more sensitive, to the thoughts and feelings of those around me.

Our family is close, but Dad and I share a bond that none of my brothers and sisters do. Where they need taking care of, I can be left alone. We can sit beside each other for hours not talking, yet saying so much. Today is the day he needs that most. It always begins the same way, with Dad working on the tractor outside, more in memory than for practical reasons, while we have breakfast. Mom makes breakfast, and if this day is a work and school day, she is always on time. She feels the sadness too.

This year, it's a Saturday. Mom drinks her coffee at the sink, her face lined with worry as she looks out towards the barn. It's harder this year, but she doesn't say so. I know it as truth anyway. I've finished my breakfast and in the middle of trying to break up another food fight at the kitchen table, I notice her turn towards me. "Lara?" she says, the strain in her voice imperceptible to everyone but me. "Yes Mom?" I reply, waiting on what she won't ask me to do. "Will you..." she begins, and trails off, unsure of what she's asking, the words just out of reach.

I know what she wants. I knew it this morning when I got out of bed and watched Dad walk to the barn, the weight of the world almost crushing him. Strange that something invisible should be so tangible. I wish I could take it from him, but he would never let me. The only person he shares the burden with is Mom, and even then he shoulders most of it, uncomplaining.

Calm, quiet and reassuring, I say "Sure, Mom", and see some of the worry disappear. She leaves her coffee mug in the sink and marches to the table, ready to be the General on her unruly children. She hugs me as I stand up. "Thank you, sweetheart" she whispers, kissing my temple. I would have done it without asking, she knows that, but she is making the connection with him through me that will him bring him back to her. "Always, Mom" I whisper back, brushing her cheek with my lips.

I pick some sunflowers from the greenhouse: such happy, cheerful flowers, out of place on a day like today, but oddly fitting all the same. I spend a lot of time here with Dad. He built the greenhouse in the backyard one year after Mom wished on her birthday that she could have strawberries all year round. She missed them when they weren't in season: now, we always have some. Dad's magic hands tend them, and I water them, and over the years we have added other things, like the sunflowers. It's our native flower, Dad says, so we _should_ have sunflowers here.

Shelby bounces over to me when I walk out of the greenhouse, carefully shutting the door behind me. He's full of life. Really, he is Shelby the second, the original long buried under the tree in the meadow. _He_ was my first toy and my first friend, a warm comforting presence in the absence of my parents. "Hey boy," I murmur, scratching him behind the ears. "Don't bother Dad today, ok?" He understands and dutifully runs to the porch, lying in front of the door in the exact spot where Mom will trip over him, ready to protect the people he loves.

It is time to talk to Dad.

As a child, I always thought the barn was a place full of mystery, an adventure ready to be explored at every opportunity. Mostly, I associate it with my dad. There is so much of him here, because here he is _himself_, not Clark Kent, reporter with the Daily Planet, or Superman, Kal-El, the Man of Steel. Just Dad. This is his thinking place, where he comes to set the world to rights or decide how best to explain to his hot-headed son that he absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, set his teacher on fire for giving him detention. He retreats here to wrestle with his guilt over someone or something that has beaten him.

One night after we watched him perform another miracle on the news, I couldn't sleep. I knew these miracles always came at a cost, a cost my parents are careful to hide from us. I see it anyway. Restless and worried, I gave up on sleep and made my way to the barn where I knew Mom would be waiting for him. I crept up the stairs to find them lying on the battered old couch that Dad can't seem to part with. Mom was lying on top of him, as though protecting his broken heart from the world that could inflict so much pain on the one who saved it so often. As I watched them sleep, I realised how young my parents are, and wondered if they had dreams they had to give up to lead the lives they do, roads not taken because of the additions to their family.

The distance between the sunflowers and the barn is not great, but reaching my destination is like meeting the edge of another world: a silent, still place, full of despair. I wonder idly if I might need to physically drag Dad out of here. I could, of course: each of his children had inherited one of his abilities. I have his strength, an odd quirk of nature that seems as fitting as my impulsive brother Jon having his speed, or hotheaded Sam his heat vision. Watchful Martha has his x-ray vision, and little Summer who hears everything has his super hearing. Yet this is a lie, a complete fallacy. For all my strength, I am not _strong_. Mom is the one with true strength, who can put Dad back together; who will rush to the aid of someone who needs it at a moment's notice; who can see through every fib we ever told her; who can hear every whispered hope and dream. I like to think that the universe, in some mighty karmic act, made Mom and Dad for each other, to complement each other by being complete opposites. _She_ should be the one out here, reaching out to Dad through the fog of grief he surrounds himself in. But she sent me, so I will have to do it instead.

He is in the place I expect him to be, in the middle of the barn, fixing the tractor. I clutch the sunflowers tighter and will myself to move forward. He knows I'm here, and why, but doesn't move until finally, standing behind him, I reach out and touch his shoulder. He stills under my hand and only turns when I say "Dad", the quiet word shattering the silence. His head tilts so he can look at me, grey eyes boring into mine. Sometimes looking at Dad is like looking in a mirror: we have the same eyes and mouth, the same dark hair and the same determined edge to our chins. Mom gave me my nose and the inquisitive nature of my forehead, but really, I am Dad's girl, a rare and unique part of him.

This is why she sent me.

Finally, he stands, dragging his body upwards. I hold out my free hand and he takes it as we walk out of the barn, unaffected by the reported chill in the air. Mom says its freezing and wishes she was temperature resistant too. Dad says there will be more snow today – he can read the weather as easily as he can read Mom.

As we walk, I feel a tug on my hand, as though he is dragging a little, unwilling to move. I tighten my grip and move ahead, stopping all too soon as the cemetery comes into view. Our path is preordained and familiar, the grave in the shadow of the angel our destination. We have come to see Grandma.

When I think of Grandma Martha, I think automatically of love – love for her family, for her state, for all the people who had none. Especially the love she kept in a special place in her heart for Grandpa Jonathan, who I never met, but I feel as if I know him. To everyone, she was Martha Kent, Senator for Kansas, whose integrity and honesty were legendary. I knew her as Grandma, the one who Dad always cajoled into baking a cherry pie for him, was a ready ear and shoulder for Mom and an active participant in whatever crazy schemes Jon and Sam had thought up. She had compassion for everyone: the disease that invaded her body had none.

I stayed with her frequently towards the end, on the afternoons I was home early from school and Mom and Dad were at work. She talked about Grandpa a lot, like he was still with her. Fitting, then, that she should join him in the next life on the same day she lost him in this one, and rest here beside the man she loved so much. She loved Dad too – her miracle child, she called him. He _is_ a miracle, who he is and what he does, where he came from. There is another grave that Dad will visit by himself, a simple stone with the symbol we know so well burned into it - another parent, buried by his son.

Today is the day Dad mourns the passing of his parents, and all the people he couldn't save, and all the pieces of his soul he has lost along the way.

We reach the grave and, still holding Dad's hand, I reach down and lay the sunflowers against the snow, at the resting place of Jonathan and Martha Kent. The yellow is a splash of color among the white and grey of the cemetery, almost garish in its brightness. For a moment, I don't trust myself to speak. I always miss Grandma and her kind, wise words, but seeing this place solidifies the loss, making it _real_ and _here_. Dad squeezes my hand and the words flow out of me. They were there after all.

"Hey Grandma…hey Grandpa…it's Lara. Dad's here too. We all miss you. Everyone's growing up so much…Jon's faster than he ever was and has changed his mind about being a pilot, he wants to play football now. Sam's still fighting all the time, Marty's getting big…little Summer, oh Grandma, you were right when you named her, she's so cheerful and sunny all the time. Mom's still terrorizing criminals in Metropolis and worries about getting fat in her old age......Dad misses you, both of you. He wishes you were still here to tell him what to do… and maybe bake him a pie, a cherry one." I smile, imagining the twinkle in Grandma's eye and her soft laugh, echoed by a deep rumble from Grandpa. Mom says Jon laughs the way Grandpa used to.

They were here, I could feel it. We hadn't really lost them, they were just - out of reach. I speak again, almost trying to reach out to them. "You're here, aren't you? Watching over us, seeing us laugh and cry and destroy one side of the barn". A soft chuckle from Dad makes me look at him, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. His hand is warm over mine. I squeeze it and touch the headstone with my free hand, making the connection between the ones I love and the ones I miss. "Love you, always," I say finally, not needing words any more.

We stay a moment longer, letting memories that make us smile run through our heads. Dad pulls on my hand and I follow him. To my surprise, we don't head back towards the house, but towards the lake. I know where he is going, but I've never been before, and I don't know what to expect. On and on we walk, our path never changing, our destination fixed like the stars we watch at night. Mom told me about the day Dad took her here and told her about himself. He had carried his secret for a long time, not really sharing it with anyone, even though other people knew. With her, she said, it was different.

Dad rarely mentions the circumstances that led to this grave on the edge of the lake. We know about our heritage, but only once did he say anything about his father's visit to Earth. The two of us were stargazing as usual and he was teasing me about my complete inability to point out where Krypton should have been. I asked him why it mattered so much, if it wasn't there, and he said that it _was_ – it lived on in him. He told me how his father came to Smallville, and what happened to him. I can't imagine losing either of my parents. I think my world would stop if that happened. But Dad lost them when they died, and then lost his earth parents, and then lost Jor-El for the second time. He's stronger than I can comprehend.

We reach the edge of the lake, and I think to myself that this is a perfect spot: quiet and sheltered, the noise of the birds and the water a gentle accompaniment. It's just like Mom described – a stone in the grass, proudly displaying the House of El shield on it. Dad stops in front of it and I sneak a look at his face. It's a shattered mask of pain and regret, and I don't know what to do to help him. I have no words, like Mom would, and silence isn't enough. Looking down at the stone and remembering what Dad told me about Jor-El, how he saved his son's life, I realise I _do_ know what to do. Letting go of Dad's hand, I find some blue asters nearby and make a bundle of them. It's a poor tribute to the man who gave me my dad, but it's all I have. Placing the flowers on the stone, I whisper "Thank you".

Dad's arm winds round my shoulders and I lean my head on his chest, his head resting on mine. I can feel his tears drop on my face. I've only seen Dad cry once before, at Grandma's funeral, and it scares me. His chest shudders and I hold him tight. Why isn't Mom here? The tears stop and the silence wraps itself around us, almost as tight as Dad's arms round me. For a moment I wish this day didn't exist, that we could skip from yesterday to tomorrow, but I mentally chastise myself for such a wish. Dad can't keep it bottled it up all the time. He feels things deeply, and this is the only day he allows himself to grieve for all the things he can never get back.

A long moment passes, and Dad lets go of me. It's time to go home, to Mom.

I inherited Dad's gift for silence. Where my brothers and sisters chatter away, I prefer to observe and absorb everything around me, keeping my thoughts and feelings to myself. We don't speak on the way home, but as we reach the end of the lane and the house comes into view, I stop. I need to say something to him, something pressing and insistent. But what would be the use? I can't really help him. I reason with myself even as I turn to face Dad, his kind, sad eyes looking down on me. This time, I have words ready. "I'm sorry, Dad. I wish I could help you, only I'm not strong enough. It's Mom who can do that but… but I love you, Dad. I just wanted you to know". He smiles now, a genuine, heart-warming smile, and pulls me into a hug, lifting me up off the ground so my feet are dangling in the air. I feel safe and loved when Mom and Dad hug me, and now is no exception. He sets me down and kisses me on the forehead. "You help more than you know, sweetheart", he says, low in my ear.

He always calls me 'sweetheart'. Mom says it's because she refused to let him call her that. She drew the line at 'Lo' – if anyone was going to hand out nicknames, it would be her. Dad walks towards the house, and I watch the change in him as he gets closer to Mom: his back straightens and the tension leaves his shoulders. Shouts and laughter echo in the freezing air from the other side of the house, indicating the presence of the rest of my family. Summer appears, perched on Jon's shoulders, her face lighting up as she crows "Daddy!" at the top of her lungs.

Then he is engulfed in a massive bear hug, four pairs of arms fighting for space, as Sam and Marty join in. Here, now, Dad is just Dad, surrounded by his children and their adoration. He has no greater responsibility than making sure they keep on laughing and smiling. Tomorrow, he will laugh and smile with them, and maybe fly them round the kitchen: for now, he needs Mom, so he chases them away and trudges towards the house. I follow him, and find him in front of the fire, looking at the photos over the mantelpiece. I stay in the kitchen when I hear Mom come down the stairs. She is beautiful, as always, life and warmth shining out of her like something I can touch.

She looks at me surprised that we are back so soon - I look to the still figure in the living room and back to her. Understanding passes between us: she sent me to reach him when she couldn't. I _did_ help after all. Now Mom has to fix him, even though it hurts her to see him like this - so much so, it's almost like a physical ache. I realise two things in this moment: the responsibility she has to the world to be the strength he needs so much, and the depth of her love for him. Of course, they love each other – they have five children, after all, even if Mom maintains at least three of them were accidental. But it's more than that: it's the profound, forever, life-changing, soul-altering love most people only ever read about in books.

I watch as Mom leans into Dad's chest and wraps her arms around his massive form: he rests his head on her shoulder and pulls her tighter to him. In this, as in everything, they are a team, a partnership – two halves of a whole. It's a private moment, and I look away, out the window towards the wide Kansas sky, filling with clouds. Dad was right: there's more snow on the way.

I'm only seventeen and though I understand how it works, I haven't lived much in the world. Experience, such as it is, has taught me that it can be a cruel, ugly place, full of pain and grief. Yet this is the world where Dad is a symbol of hope, and Mom fights to expose the truth. If my parents can keep living and fighting and loving in this world, maybe I can find a place for me in it too.

I look back to the living room, peace now reigning over the two figures still holding each other tightly. Dad won't forget the pain, but it won't hurt as much any more. His eyes will be blue and untroubled, his shoulders lighter. He'll go to work and save the world, and then come home and soothe all our troubles. He'll watch the game with his feet up on the coffee table and tease Mom with a twinkle in his eye. He'll be alright.

Of course he will. He's Dad. And he has Mom in his corner.

I smile and go out to the greenhouse, to the sunflowers that bloom in winter.

**Fin****.**


End file.
